


Rusted and Used

by dvrling



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Gore, M/M, Masturbation, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 05:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14301531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvrling/pseuds/dvrling
Summary: “Quit drooling on me.” That’s what Batman would say. It would be a sweet observation. Kind of funny. As nice a last words as anyone could hope for.





	Rusted and Used

**Author's Note:**

> here is a thing i wrote over a year ago, owing to some very unfortunate obsessions at the time. in the time that’s passed i’ve come to think it’s disgusting, but naturally i’m still a little proud. warnings in the tags-- seriously. title src is a sElf song.

“Quit drooling on me.”

That’s what Batman would say. It would be a sweet observation. Kind of funny. As nice a last words as anyone could hope for.

Batman didn’t have any last words. He didn’t even try. No waxing eloquent on moral crusades. No “Fuck you.” No nothing! He was his stern and masculine self, with Joker’s hands squeezing his throat and legs straddling his waist. How tough. How him. It was him, but as much as it was that, it was disappointing. Good while it lasted, but no climax. Joker was so busy breathing hard and working his hands that it took him a moment to realize Batman was dead.

He wonders how Batman felt in the moments before it happened. Was he thinking about Joker? Was the pain like a nail in his spine? Or was it dull, deep-rooted, and barely noticeable? Did he know he was about to die? Did he like it? If he didn’t, well, he should have done something. Joker’s only meting out proper punishment. That he’s sure of. And he wonders if Batman let it happen under the assumption that he wouldn’t kill him. Maybe he thought Joker was showing affection.

Because Joker didn’t mean to kill him. Not consciously. Not like that. There were about forty other ways he would have preferred. His favorite, joint method was death by lethal injection, then locking their bodies in a room in front of a movie camera on low shutter speed for nine months. But Batman is dead; that would be pointless.

There are other things you can do with a body.

He wants to split Batman open and move around all his inside parts. He wants to try physical rearrangement. (“You know, it’s what’s inside that matters most. I never realized.”)

Joker just hates that brand of pathological, social yearning for mental hygiene, when it applies to him, if it applies to him, because it never does. It is something you’re born with. Something you can go right in and tamper with. Batman is already wrong in the wrong way, and you can’t fix that, especially not when you’re dead. But Batman is a perfect human specimen otherwise. Yes, perfect: no weeping scabs, no blemishes, no cuts, no scrapes, no scars, no flaws. So Joker has to be physical with him. It should be easy, mutatis mutandis, and he thinks, I deserve that, don’t I? Something easy. And it is easy.

He feels like he should make sure Batman is dead, at least. Make absolutely sure. He lifts Batman’s arm up at takes off his elbow-length vinyl glove with his teeth. He takes Batman’s hand between his. It’s not callused. It’s the first time he’s felt it without a glove, that he can remember. He kisses Batman’s knuckles, which leaves some lipstick residue, and puts the glove back on. He feels Batman’s wrist for a pulse-- through the glove. There’s nothing.

He drops Batman’s arm to the floor. The dead weight makes a thump on impact. He plasters himself against Batman’s torso and touches his neck, and wonders if there are still blanched marks where his fingers had been. It’s the type of thing that lasts on a body.

He prizes Batman’s jaw open and thinks, What a mouth. Pearl white teeth all straight and stuck in pink, dotted gums. He hovers above it. No breathing.

He presses two forefingers and a thumb lightly on Batman’s eyes. No movement.

As he cuts open Batman’s suit with a scalpel (which feels so unsterile and filthy) he’s sure there won’t be a heartbeat, either, but ritualism has such an appeal. He cuts the bat symbol in half and tears the rest of the material down to the utility belt. He feels for a heartbeat. There is none.

Joker touches Batman’s skin and feels muscle. Hard, still, and he flicks the scalpel over it, like a test. He breathes in, places a hand on Batman’s waist, and starts with an “X” incision above the navel. Carefully, like it’s an art. But no one’s watching.

“It’s just me, Batman. I’m trying to help. I wish you could see. I wish I could hear you…” Joker says, politely, and level, as he works the scalpel in sharp, short movements, “Talk at me, while I’m opening you up. I know you’d love this. You love it when I try to reshape you…”

What else can he say? He’s really a romantic.

He takes some of the skin between his fingers and peels it back with Batman’s fascia and (little) adipose tissue. It feels like heavy cellophane, sticking wetly to the inside surface, like he’s unwrapping something sweet and red. Some blood pours onto the suit, and the floor, from the angle. Joker is struck with the thought that he’s the first to ever-- this is his. Everything inside is his, and no one has done this, and no one else ever will.

Actually he’s sure Batman has been stripped and fondled before, but not in the same way. And nothing anyone else had done could compare. Not in a million years. It feels just great. Thanks.

Joker presses muscle fiber, manipulates it with his fingers, and he thinks about how it would taste. No sinew, just wide muscle expanse. Firm, but not thready, and pleasant to touch. He takes the edges of the incision and reflects it, exposing the real insides. And he was right. Batman’s viscera don’t look quite so made of stern stuff. They’re gorgeous.

“Oh. Your parts,” Joker says. The terms have gotten a little out of reach. He feels light-headed. His breathing is short. “They’re so nice. You’ve never even seen them.”

He reaches down, savoring the frictionless ease to violate and reform. He displaces the apron-y fold hanging from the stomach, and he starts to disentangle Batman’s intestines and pulls out a lower organ and its mesentery-- the kind that’s usually resilient. Elasticky-- not frail. But his intestines are kind of ischemic-looking. Heavily vascularized, though somehow starved for blood. Joker gives them a slight squeeze. Swollen, red-pink sheen over a pleasant beige. 

He runs his fingers over the membrane, and organ slick gathers under his nails. Batman: so human. That part is awful. The smell, too. Gutty and rancid like bile. He pinches and rolls the membrane between his index and thumb. It feels filmy. He stretches it taut, and pierces it with his nail. He pulls the intestine and guides the tear till it’s almost completely detached, and wraps some of it around his hand.

It’s warm and glossy and gleans and Joker has never felt so close to any person in all his life. He touches it, feels how smooth it is, and stares at Batman’s open cavity: the internal things. Things that make-- made-- Batman tick, that kept his body-weapon moving and beautiful. They glean, too, and, oh, Joker can’t help himself, so he drives both hands in, widening the hollow with his fingers.

Joker opens Batman nicely-- up to the wrists-- no, up to the mid-forearms, twisting the walls of internal structures and such. The vulgar and (he thinks) a little funny thought that runs through his head is, Never thought it’d be anything other than “I want you inside me, Batman.” But he likes this. He likes forcing himself in, and feeling the tight pressure of Batman’s abdomen all over. I’m breaking organs, Joker thinks, making him mine.

His feet struggle to make traction against the floor, and he slips as he pushes, feels around, and marks as much inside surface with his hands that he can. Joker’s mouth is close to the incision, and he’s already numb to the smell, so he tears off a bit of skin with his teeth and sucks on it, swallows the taste of copper and grime, then spits the flesh back. He takes an arm out and places his palm flat on Batman’s chest, and digs his nails in. He claws at Batman’s back interior wall with the hand still inside.

He pulls his arm out and fumbles on the floor for the scalpel. He grabs it, and lets himself back into the even rhythm of pushing and dragging. There’s so little room for him to move. It is orgasmic. He can’t stand it. He’s shaken with dry sobs, and his eyes are watering-- not emotionally. But he doesn’t want tear tracks.

He sits up. The sleeves of his jacket are stained dark and damp-heavy, and he thinks, Can you get that out of a white material? You can’t. It’s probably just as well. That jacket was getting old. He takes it off and throws it aside, and dabs at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. Wet with gore, too. He licks it off his fingers.

“Batman,” Joker says dully, “you’re a treat.”

He pulls out a cigarette (in the spirit of post-sex!), takes one drag, and flicks it away.

“You were fantastic. Really.” He clears his throat. “Look, I know you want more, but I’ve done enough, haven’t I? Haven’t I done enough?”

Joker looks at Batman, really looks at him, all soft strips of flesh and organ and fresh gum skin and torn mesenteries and coagulated blood filling the cavity like a drink. Batman’s intestines are totally shredded, and his head is tilted back, with a face still and lifeless. His cape is folded beneath him. He doesn’t look mythic. He never did. He looks sick. He looks dead.

So it goes.

“I’m sorry, Batman. I know for certain you’d want me to…” Joker says, and takes a breath, “Pay my respects. And so soon.”

He undoes his pants. He’s already half-hard with his heart in his throat from the gore. His pulse is running fast enough for the both of them. He starts touching himself dry, and with the tract, then dips his other hand into Batman to ease the friction. He’ll finish before it congeals, anyway, and it’s not all blood.

He sets a slow pace. The “lubricant” gets sticky soon in. He leans forward, and reaches to Batman’s mouth. It’s not warm-- damp, not puffed from bacteria, thank God, and Joker smiles as he feels Batman’s teeth. He gathers saliva and reaches back to his cock, mixing red and cold spit and pre-come on the tip, and he is drooling, just a bit, grinning and breathing through closed teeth. As he strokes himself, he starts feeling Batman through those silly-looking bat-trunks (which he just adores), and he’s big there, like everywhere else. Like his hands. His big, strong, pretty hands-- which he could use to strangle two people at once!-- which he could use to strangle the Joker, if he were, well, alive.

And once he’s done really feeling up Batman, in that way, he roams a little more, and finds Batman’s hand. He holds it between his. Batman is getting him off, and Joker abandons his quiet pleasure to moan into his lip, and scrape it with his teeth. He watches Batman as he does it, how stern he looks, how disapproving, and how handsome. He drops the hand and starts feeling around, and grips Batman’s hip, then his waist, and moves forward to push his hand inside Batman for that feel of warm and wet. The one he knows so well. 

He shivers, full-body, because he’s almost fucking Batman’s organs, now, he’s close, and the idea nauseates him, but he doesn’t get back. He’s touching himself with both hands-- working the wrist of one and the other at the base, and tries to get a steady motion, but he can’t focus on that.

For the first time since five minutes or so ago, he’s thinking about Batman. He wonders, What would Batman do with my corpse? Would he laminate my body and keep it in a case? Would he spend long nights, looking at it, thinking about what he could have had? Would he keep it in preservative fluid? Would he touch it? 

Wow. How thought-provoking.

He comes “inside”-- a few streaks of white in a whole lot of red, then unravels that particular tract, leaving stripes of watery-pink shine. Joker lets himself fall forward, just on top of the body, lets the blood stain the front of his shirt, lets the organs shift under his weight.

He hooks an arm around Batman’s head and pulls him forward for a peck on the lips. Chaste, simple. Not long enough to feel the stiffness that’s set in. Then he lifts himself a few inches, grabs the scalpel, and without really thinking, cuts his arteries, like he’s ripping off a Band-Aid. Quick and painful. He thinks absently how the sound of being bled out is very splattery, messy. He sighs, and his vision goes a little black, and he sees some stars. He hopes his makeup isn’t running.


End file.
